


The Thing About Pain

by HaneleHaralue



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Bette Sans Souci Lives, Comic Book References, Disabled Character, Friendship, Metahumans, OC Michela Calhoun, Past Abuse, Secret Identity, Tony Woodward Lives, metahuman prison is problematic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8181934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaneleHaralue/pseuds/HaneleHaralue
Summary: The thing is, just because she could take the pain, doesn't mean that she should have. Cause now? Now she's got an adorkable superhero she didn't need trailing after her, trying to make friends. That, and a passel of metahumans who seem to think her apartment makes for a great safe house. .[Starts with S1E4 "Going Rogue"]





	1. Demands to Be Felt

Plenty of things happened at night. Good things, bad things. Maybe more bad than good, what with the increased amount of crime and accidents. However, there was some guy who dressed in red, ran super fast, and liked to save the day to tip scales back to the good. At least, Mr. Red was what a lot of blogs online were chattering about. Not that she was one to pay attention to what blogs were saying, but everywhere she went, someone was whispering curiously about it and she wasn't deaf. Hearing about it always made her snort - out loud in private and internally in public - though not for the reason most people would think.

Most people would probably think she scoffed at the super powers part of the vigilante with superpowers equation.

Maybe if she'd been almost anyone else, that really would've been why.

As it was, super powers like running super fast was not the most impossible thing she could believe in. The fact that someone would go running around in red and saving people _was._ Running around in a bright red suit was ridiculous enough on its own, but the fact that someone would use an ability like that for good? She could count on both hands and still need hands for the number of people she knew who would probably have abused that power by now. Like robbed a bank on the other side of the country knowing that they would never get caught.

Sure, she was probably the worst kind of cynic who needed a better outlook on life, or needed to rethink her future career as a social worker. And she probably needed to meet make new acquaintances if that was the caliber of people she was spent time with on a regular basis.

Seriously though, at least one thing she'd believed about nights was right: bad shit happened.

The proof was in the night she'd just had not long ago. She'd been on a late night train home to Keystone one second, then thrown into the air the next, and then deposited safely on the ground near the train tracks after that. Said train was busy crashing and blowing up in the background like it had been part of some terrible action movie sequence. And as if to complete the picture, Mr. Red was suddenly there on the ground amongst the wreckage. With some self-styled villain type standing over him, too, looking just as if not more ridiculous than his tightly leathered counterpart in that stupid parka.

Just as she was thinking that the cherry of witnessing murder was going to top her bad night sundae, three people holding a huge machine that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi flick threatened the villain guy with it. At least, it looked like threatening, she couldn't really hear anything that was said over the sound of the roaring flame right next to her. She inched away from it, and closer to where the confrontation was happening. But not too close, she had about zero percent interest in being shot with whatever the glowing blue substance in either weapon was. It looked like a not so great experience, if Mr. Red's condition was any indication.

As they kept talking and she kept inching closer, she evaluated the situation.

Mr. Red was real. Like an actual superhero. Cool, probably?  
If there be superheroes, there be supervillains. It made sense.  
There was a wrecked train and she wasn't wrecked with it. So…

Did that mean Mr. Red saved her life?

If he did, well. That was- that was something.

What did you do when someone saved your life? She'd never had her life saved before, at least not in the traditional sense, and especially never by a superhero. Was she just supposed to thank him? Just saying thank you seemed a little lame. Also, did that make her a damsel in distress? Well, she wasn't exactly still in distress, she hadn't even had time to really be in distress. Was she even supposed to be mad? Honestly, gratitude outweighed everything else.

She was pulled from her thoughts when she felt she was being watched. There was no one there when she looked up; Mr. Red was being happy mobbed by the people holding the machine thing, and she only just caught glimpse of the villain disappearing into parts unknown. Which was good, she supposed. His escape was likely to be problematic later, but she could live with temporary fixes. Hopefully she wouldn't be on any form of public transportation he would be crashing any time soon.

There was also a decision here.

Before her brain got to making it, her feet did it for her. She found herself standing in front of the four people. Their conversation had cut short when they saw her approaching, and their gazes grew wary. With pain mixed in on Mr. Red's part. And that reminded her of what she really came over here to do.

"Hey," she greeted them, lifting one hand to give a clipped wave, which the blonde with glasses and not-superhero guy awkwardly returned, "I'm Michela. Thank you for saving my life."

"Just- just doin' my job, miss," Mr. Red said with a grimace and a weak salute, though his charm fell flat. He still got points for the effort.

" _We've got to go_ ," the redhead whispered frantically to the group, as if Michela weren't there.

The blonde, redhead, and the brunet (her brain guttered out for a second at the observation, because _damn,_ they were all attractive on top of that) all moved to get the injured superhero onto his feet. Michela stepped closer and wasn't surprised to see them try and put themselves between him and her. It was cute.

"Sorry, just lemme help. If I do this, it'll be better," she promised, elbowing her way through.

"No, stop!" The blonde woman exclaimed, the redhead making similar noises.

But she was through, and Mr. Red was right there, watery hazel, green eyes locking with her own dark ones. And then she had a hand on either side of his jaw.

"Breathe, okay?" She told him, and then _pulled._

Some thoughts occurred to her, then and there.

The first being that she needed goddamn pain meds like right now, because the perpetual migraine that lived in her brain now had a dance partner in the searing, prickling sensation along her lower back and gut.

The second being that she was on the ground, curled into the fetal position.

The third being that there were a lot of voices going off loudly above her.

And fourth being that she was an idiot who, despite knowing that it was a complete and utter mistake, had walked right up to Mr. Red and his posse and revealed her own stupid ability.

She'd blame it on the near death experience later.

"What's wrong with her?" Michela heard Mr. Red's voice cut through everything, "And- And why does nothing hurt anymore?"

"Metahuman! Metahuman!" Someone squawked excitedly.

"Did she heal you?! Unzip and let me see!"

"Did that sound dirty to you, or is it just me?"

"Definitely dirty."

"Hey, hey, you can check me over later, right now, let's help her."

Michela felt herself being coaxed out of fetal position and onto her back. She couldn't fight the need to wrap her arms protectively around her middle. Through teary eyes, she looked up at the four of them.

"Are you okay?" Mr. Red asked from where he knelt beside her, the visible features of his face beneath the mask pinched with concern.

"Peachy," she replied in a wheeze, " _So_ okay, you don't even know."

"Somehow, I don't believe you," he snarked back, making her lips twitch up feebly in response, "Really though, what did you do?"

"Oh, you know, took your pain." The second she felt actual tears coming on, she threw an arm up to cover her eyes, making a thumbs up with the hand of that arm. "Felt like it was a better way to say thank you than just saying thank you. Hurts like a bitch though. What did you do to piss that guy off?"

That drew a choked off chuckle out of him.

"So you didn't heal him?" Though she couldn't see her, she had a feeling that had been the blonde.

"No," she groaned out with a shake of her head, "My first born to whoever has painkillers they are willing to part with."

Someone pressed pills into her hand and she swallowed those suckers down dry in an instant. It was going to take a while to kick in, but future her would thank her then.

"Really though," Redhead started again, "If we stay here any longer, the police will arrive and we really don't want them catching us."

"Go, you should go," Michela agreed, making a shooing motion at them with a hand.

"We'll take you with us," Mr. Red insisted, "You're hurt."

"No thanks," she insisted back, her weak smile starting to wear into gritted teeth, "I'll be fine. You four are giving off, 'return to base' and 'secret identity' vibes, and I'm just going to cramp your style."

"But-" Mr. Red tries.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Redhead cut him off hurriedly.

"Yeah, it's just pain. Let the paramedics take care of me whenever they get here. I'll be in good hands."

Lifting her arm away from her eyes, she looked up at the distraught face of her savior. He looked as if he wanted to say something more. She wondered if she was the first person he'd encountered so far who also had abilities like he did. Until she'd started hearing about him, she'd thought she'd been alone, too.

"Hey," she said softly to him, putting a hand on his knee, "If you wanna find me later to talk, look me up. My full name is Michela Calhoun. I have facebook."

There was that chuckle again.

"I might just do that."

By the tone of his voice, it didn't sound like it would be just _might_.

"Now get out of here. Live to hero another day."

He snorted, then grasped the hand resting on his knee with his own gloved one and squeezed.

"Thanks," he told her, releasing her hand, "And take care of yourself."

"Sure thing, Mr. Red."

And then her eyes slipped shut and all she focused on was breathing deeply without hissing in agony on every exhale. The next time she opened them, a paramedic was squatting down and assessing her condition. She told him she was experiencing her usual migraines, exacerbated by the stress of the freak train crash. Thankfully, the paramedics chased off any cops who tried to ask her questions. Someone also managed to locate her cellphone and bring it to her before she was trundled off to the hospital due to her complaints of excessive pain and settled in for the night for observation. Michela sifted through the panicked and worried phone messages and texts she'd received from school friends and her uncle who heard about the train wreck.

The last thing she did before she fell asleep for the night was shoot all of them (less than grammatical and confusing - _she was tired and on drugs, okay?_ ) texts to let them know she was fine. Just as she began to fade for good, she felt a gust of wind blow through her room. If she was less out of it, she might've questioned why it was windy in a hospital room with firmly shut windows and doors.

As it was, she didn't notice there was a new number in her contacts until now, only a day later, when she was back to her normal routine at her internship and she got a text from someone listed as "Mr. Red." Frankly, she'd been pretty sure she'd hallucinated talking to the guy while high. Except. Except apparently she really had been that special kind of dumb in revealing what she could do to a man with questionable tastes in fashion and hobbies.

Proof that the whole thing _had_ happened was right there, in the three words that stared damningly back up at her from her phone.

_-Can we talk?-_

Just how out of it had she been to make that offer? Had she really had time to trade contact info like that? And did he not even realize how much of a bad idea it was talking to her? Not getting involved with civilians was textbook superhero modus operandi. Except for the fact that she'd kind of outed herself as not one hundred percent civilian. So maybe this all circled back to her being an idiot.

In the midst of her freak out, she received a handful of texts.

_-Hello?-_  
_-Michela?-_  
_-You know who this is right?-  
_ _-From the trainwreck?-_

Jesus, the guy had no chill. Which helped surprisingly, because as a result, she was coming down from her own lack of chill.

_-Hello?-_

She could just ignore him. She really could. It would be really shitty after basically telling him he could talk to her and he'd seemed really hopeful when she said so. That part she remembered at least. But if her messy childhood had taught her anything, she needed to look out for herself first and inviting a superhero into her life was not going to help her in that endeavor. Her phone pinged again. And again and again, faster than she expected.

_-Are you mad im sending so many txts?-_  
_-Or bc of you kno…?-  
_ _-Or cuz i put my # on ur phone?-_

So that's what happened.

- _Im rly sry-  
__-Sry-_

Oh hell, she really needed to put the guy out of his misery, he'd already devolved into chatspeak. If she didn't, he could take this to the next step with weepy emoticons or something. It was hard to even actually be mad because it was just that pitiful. Taking a fortifying breath, she started typing back.

_-STOP-_

And after a deafeningly long bout of silence, she sent one more text, because she was as good at compounding her mistakes as ever.

_-Hey Mr. Red. So you wanna talk?-_

Michela immediately shoved her phone into her purse to ignore for a while and nodded grimly to herself. She definitely deserved all the things - bad, good, whatever - that she had coming for this.

 


	2. Uncomplicated, Mostly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The anonymity actually made it easier to wake up the next morning like everything was still mostly normal and uncomplicated.
> 
> Real names and real faces couldn't give her that.

This was the stupidest thing she'd ever done.

That had been the theme for the last couple days, because she kept on doing stupid things to top other stupid things. Like this. Like standing in the middle of the rooftop of her apartment building, waiting, phone clutched tightly in her hand. Her thumb hovered over the call button, '911' already punched in. Not that it was likely the phone would help. If she was actually in any trouble, she'd never be able to press that button in time.

All this had begun when she'd started (with great reluctance) texting back and forth with the local superhero. Their conversations so far had been... okay? For texting about meeting face-to-face, at least. He'd told her a surprising amount about himself already, and for every five to ten of his texts she'd send one text trying to keep him on track about meeting in person. She was half convinced the guy was underaged, based off of his attention span and rapid fire texting alone. Michela sincerely hoped he wasn't because that would mean she'd hit an all time low. Catfished by a teenager (not that this was _that_ , but just _no_ ).

Just as she was about to text and ask, he was suddenly there in front of her in a burst of red and gold light. The light was so bright, she had to clap her hands over her eyes to stave off the steep spike in discomfort in her brain. She held her hands there for almost a ten count, reveling in the soothing darkness.

"Michela?" She heard a tentative voice say. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay, Mr. Red, peachy," she replied, before finally pulling her hands away, "And wow, deja vu, I'm guessing you still don't believe me?"

"You guessed right." Looking up at him then, she blinked in shock at how it took tipping her head back until she was finally looking him in the eye. "What happened?"

"TBI." At the look of confusion on his masked features she explained further, making a flippant gesture at her head. "Traumatic brain injury, once upon a lifetime ago. There were lasting consequences, light sensitivity and migraines among other things."

"Oh." There was dawning realization about what set her off. "I'm sorry."

"You didn't know." She reached out to pat him once on the arm, inconspicuously turning off and pocketing her phone as she did it.

They stood there, staring at each other in silence for almost a minute before he opened his mouth again. "So…"

"I have a question," Michela cut him off, "And it's really important to me that you answer it honestly, okay?"

"Okay." His expression adopted that wariness she remembered from the first time they met.

"How old are you?" The wariness morphed quickly into bewilderment. "Actually, no need to give me an exact number if you're not comfortable with me knowing that, but what I really need to know is that you are not a minor. For my peace of mind."

There was something like exasperation warring with amusement on his features.

Mr. Red huffed, "Do I really look that young?"

"I don't know. I can only see like half of your face, and what I do see is too youthful to be reassuring." She frowned at him.

"I'm not a minor. And if it helps reassure you, I'm twenty-five."

"Huh." Michela leaned in, peering closely up at his face. "You're older than me."

"Wait," he said his own eyes widening, "How old are you?"

"Hey, no worries, I'm twenty-three, adult territory too, mostly." They shared a smile. "So, as clandestine as meeting on the roof is, could we actually have this conversation in my apartment where it's warm and I have leftover lasagna?"

"Well uh, you know," he said scratching at the back of his neck, his smile tinged with chagrin, "I actually have no objections to that suggestion. What's your apartment number and floor?"

With some unease at disclosing it, she rattled off the information requested. When he asked if her door was locked and she shook her head no, all she got was a grin in warning before she suddenly experienced the same sensation she felt the day of the train crash. A second of weightlessness, displacement, vertigo. And now they were stood just inside her front door, and Mr. Red was shutting the door behind them, taking an extra second to lock it, too.

"Okay," she drawled out, steadying herself on the wall beside her, "Next time, ask before you do… that. Or give me a heads up so I can brace myself. We're lucky that didn't do anything funky to me because of, you know."

The superhero turned to her, looking mortified.

"God, I'm sorry, you're right, I should've asked-" he babbled.

"Just don't do it again, okay?" He did his best impression of a bobble head, and her tone turned wry. "I'm admittedly a little fragile, so handle with care, yeah?"

"Yeah," he nodded a little slower, his expression that of a miserably guilty puppy even with the mask covering a lot of it.

It was making her feel guilty too, and that was really not fair.

"Also, you need to ask me a question so that it'll be fair for me to ask you another one," she prompted him from over her shoulder as she started heading for the kitchen.

"Question?" His voice came from behind her, his footsteps following her. "Oh yeah, um, I sort of, brought a list?"

That got a laugh out of her.

"Then start with question number one on the list while I warm up the lasagna, Mr. Red."

Not waiting to hear what he thought, she pulled the tin lasagna tray out of her refrigerator, peeling the foil on top back to inspect the contents. There was still about half the tray left and she knew that she could eat anywhere from a quarter to a third of it on her own. She couldn't guess at what his appetite would be like, so tobe on the safe side, she tented the foil and stuffed the entire tray in the oven instead of dishing separate portions out and microwaving it. Once she was done with that and had a timer set, she turned around and leaned back against the oven, looking at Mr. Red. He looked so bizarre, standing in the middle of her kitchen in his costume, hands fiddling with a slightly crumpled piece of paper.

"It's actually, not a question on the list," he finally spoke up, glancing away from the paper and at her face. She shrugged, and gestured for him to continue. "I just, you seem really calm about everything."

"You expected me to freak out." He nodded. "I am a bit, on the inside. But you're right, it doesn't seem like it. I've just had almost a year to get used to the fact that I could do something that I couldn't really explain. And about a month to get used to the fact that someone else out there was about as explainable as I was."

"I like the word impossible better," the man quipped, and she sensed there was an inside joke in there somewhere based on the air of bemusement around him.

"Impossible or not, we're here, and we can do these things," Michela said, "And at the end of the day, it comes down to choosing what we do about it. You decided to be a superhero in red, something I don't understand at all, but for the sake of this blossoming friendship, I'm going to try not to judge." He made a face at her and she made one right back, though they both ended up grinning. "I decided to just keep being me."

"Not more?" He asked, sounding curious rather than anything else.

"I never needed to be more," she answered, hating the defensive edge that came through, "And what I can do, it's not like what you can."

"But-" he cut himself off.

"I know what you're thinking." She paused, forcing her shoulders not to hike up to her ears. "At least, I think so. What I can do, taking pain, yeah, that can help people. People who have been hurt, people who are sick, it would probably be a big relief taking that pain. But if I do that, I hurt myself. That show I put on for you and your friends at the trainwreck wasn't for show. I feel it. And it sucks. And maybe it's selfish of me, but I don't want it. Not on top of what I already live with."

"Hey, no," he said, walking forward and hesitating for a second before putting a hand on either of her shoulders, "I don't think that. At least, I only thought it for a second, but I know what it feels like getting shot by Captain Cold. And you took that for me, so I _know_ it sucked. I would never ask you to put yourself through that for me. Or for anyone else."

Michela stared at him for a long stretch of time and then lowered her gaze to his chest with a laugh.

"Man, I can't keep looking up at you like that, you are too tall. And I still can't take you seriously with the mask and the suit and…"

"You said you weren't going to be judgemental about the suit," Mr. Red groused, though his eyes were bright.

"I just can't, I'm never going to stop being judgemental about the suit," she cackled, "Really, why red?"

Whatever his response was going to be, it was cut off by a long rumbling growl from his stomach, probably from the smell of lasagna wafting strong from the oven now. It might've been her imagination, but his face might have pinked a bit around the edges of his mask. She started swatting at the hands on her shoulders and went rummaging through her cupboards until she found an already open bag of Milano cookies. Standing again to face him, she held the bag out to him.

"Appetizer?"

"Have I mentioned before that I like the way you think?" The superhero gushed, his hand already stuffed into the bag, "Because I do, really."

"Clearly," she snickered, "Once you're done with that, you're gonna pull your weight and set the table. We can get back to tackling that list of yours once we've both eaten, 'cause I'm hungry and you're starving."

"Okay," he said, his lips tugged up in a huge, crumb covered smile.

* * *

That was how she found herself having dinner with an actual superhero. And so what if the two of them had practically eaten the leftovers out of the tray and she'd even left him to his own devices to go change into pajamas at one point? She'd watched the guy go through her entire stash of cookies, clean out the lasagna tray with little help from her, and have the audacity to drink half the gallon of milk before she'd smacked at him to stop. Neither of them were working hard to impress the other by the end of the night.

They hadn't even really gotten through all of his questions either. She might've been to blame, considering how doggedly she demanded answers for "why red?" among other asinine questions. Not once did she try to pry into any further personal information from him, though. It felt like the entire time, he'd been on edge waiting for her to trick him into divulging his secret identity and she just… didn't want to. It was fun she admitted to herself, hanging out and getting to know dumb little things about him. And something she hadn't even realized she'd been holding too tightly inside of herself had actually loosened when she finally talked about what had happened to her, to both of them. But she didn't need more. Didn't really need the name or face behind the mask. The anonymity actually made it easier to wake up the next morning like everything was still mostly normal and uncomplicated.

Real names and real faces couldn't give her that.

Texts continued to flow freely between them - albeit unevenly because he still didn't know how not to barrage her with texts - and he stopped by her apartment a couple times to eat more of her food and ask the next question on his list. It stayed simple like that, all the way until she was sitting on her couch one night unwinding for the day with takeout. Enough to feed a small army, just in case he showed up then or later. Her phone pinged when she was halfway through her first spring roll. Looking down at it, the only hint that something was about to happen was one word:

- _Incoming_ -

Michela only had enough time to unlock her door and step away and then he was standing in front her. A redheaded woman completely different from the one who had been with him the first time they met was standing at his side, vigilantly surveying her surroundings.

"Hey!" Mr. Red breathed out, nervousness oozing off of him, "I uh, there's a reason for this and-"

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she raised a hand to stop him. When she opened them, it was to him wincing and the woman shifting from one foot to another.

"Food first," she sighed, not bothering to hide the annoyance tinging her tone, "We eat and then I decide if I'm kicking you out once we're done."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as Michela's brain injury goes, I am writing strictly from research and if anyone wants to offer information, insight, or suggestions as to how to better write about a character with a brain injury, I'm all ears.


	3. Ask Permission, Not Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So." Her female guest had just finished and was now was sitting quiet and attentively, meaning now was as good a time as any for those two to talk. "You have until I am done eating. Fill that time with words."

The woman - whose name was Bette Sans Souci - turned out to be a damn delight. She was the full package; beautiful, nice employment record, and most importantly, came with impeccable manners. Michela made her opinions on her unexpected house guest known loudly and repetitively as she ploughed through another spring roll. It was gratifying to watch Mr. Red sink lower and lower into the couch, staring forlornly at her from over the large couch pillow he hugged to himself. The giant child.

"That thing you're doing with your eyes - while devastatingly cute - is not going to help you," she said as she aggressively snatched up a banh mi.

A snicker might have come from Bette's side of the table. Or it could've been a cough. No one would ever know for sure, since the redhead had already schooled her features into a bland expression as she also bit into her own sandwich. Mr. Red continued to pout and bounce his leg incessantly, not having much to do because he wasn't yet allowed to talk and he'd already sped ate through his multiple servings and the flan she had gotten for dessert. He really must've felt bad though, because he actually remembered to leave some for her this time. If he hadn't, she would've marched him to the door to buy some more.

"So." Her female guest had just finished and was now was sitting quiet and attentively, meaning now was as good a time as any for those two to talk. "You have until I am done eating. Fill that time with words."

" _I'mreallyreallysorryMichela_ -"

Making the same halting gesture she had when he'd first shown up, she ordered, "Apologies and groveling later. I need to know why you brought her here."

"It's a long story, but…" He and bomb specialist shared a look before the woman took over.

"It all started when I was shipped home to recuperate after a roadside bomb riddled me with shrapnel…"

As Bette spoke, Michela took care to keep the horror unfurling within her from showing on her face. Though her own experience receiving abilities had not been great, it hadn't been as bad as it had for Mr. Red, who'd admitted to her that he'd been hospitalized and near death after the particle accelerator explosion. His story paled in comparison to this one. The traumatic circumstances that had put the woman on the path of gaining abilities had screwed her over further by leaving her in the hands of people who would experiment on and use her. Even though she had escaped, she was still being hunted. It was like something out of a crappy Hollywood thriller plotline except real and another reminder of why she had never told another soul about herself until now.

"So why come here then?"

"Well," the redhead said, glancing at Mr. Red, "B-"

"Don't-!" Mr. Red exclaimed, making both women jump, "She doesn't know my name, who I am."

The metahuman capable of making things explode narrowed her eyes at the man in the suit.

Taking in the rising tension between the two, Michela spoke, "It's okay, I actually don't want to know."

That had both of their heads snapping to her - Bette's expression questioning and Mr. Red's disbelieving.

"You... don't?" He finally asked.

"No." The superhero looked like he wanted to say more, but she didn't let him. "So you were telling me why you came, Bette."

"He said that you had powers-" The word was spat out like something bitter tasting. "-like us. That we should meet."

Running a hand over her head and mussing her short dark hair, Michela pulled in a long, deep breath for what felt like the twentieth time that night.

"Ignoring the fact that he told you something about me that _only_ he and about three other people should know-" She didn't look at him, even as he squirmed in the periphery of her vision. "-It actually is nice to meet you, in spite of everything." After a moment of consideration, she spoke again. "This is probably going to sound cheesy, but you're not alone. I know what it's like being able to do something that causes more harm than good. Like I told Mr. Red here a while back, if you need someone to talk to, you know how to find me."

"Thank you," Bette said softly, her voice full of emotion.

"You're welcome."

A jaw cracking yawn chose to rip out of Michela then. She cut most of it off with a hand over her mouth as sleepy tears formed at the corners of her eyes. Blinking them away, she refocused her gaze on both of her guests.

"Michela…" the man started, but she shook her head.

"Those apologies need to keep waiting. I'm tired and not exactly ready to accept or refuse them right now. So I'm kicking you both out so I can get some sleep." She caught his gaze as she smothered another yawn. "And whenever you do come back, you better be the one bringing the food."

"I- Yeah, it'll be on me next time," he promised with a nod, his features contrite, but his eyes hopeful, "Goodnight."

Wishing both him and the other woman a goodnight, she pressed the door shut behind them, set every lock, and turned her security system on. She was ready to clean up the mess on coffee table in the living room, but stopped short when she noticed everything was already gone. A peek into the kitchen showed empty takeout containers rinsed out and recycled. Everything else had been put into the fridge. The woman had to fight a smile. Maybe he did have manners, buried deep down under all of that red leather and clumsy demeanor.

After showering and getting ready for bed, she checked her phone for the last time before plugging it in.

- _Thank you for tonight_ -

It was pretty serious when Mr. Red didn't use a lick of chatspeak in his texts when there were plenty of opportunities to do so. She was tempted to just leave it, because he still deserved the cold shoulder after the shit he pulled tonight. However, with a smirk curling her lips, she shook her head and fired a text.

- _Burritos and extra chips and salsa_ -

Before she even turned it off, she got a response back that was just a winky face. Her eye roll lasted her all the way through setting it aside and crawling into bed. As she settled in though, she couldn't stop her mind from committing a certain fact into her memory.

Mr. Red's real name, whatever it was, started with a 'B.'

* * *

Having people with powers drop in for visits must have become the new normal for her, because it was barely even surprising to find Bette sitting against her apartment door, knees pulled to her chest. Michela hadn't expected to be taken up on her offer so quickly, especially not the very next morning, but maybe that was another habit that the other woman had picked up from their mutual friend. They should probably have a talk about how there were better role models to take after than that guy. Whatever she might've said in greeting died in her throat when she took in the fear and hopelessness in her new acquaintance's face. Without a word, she ushered her in and secured the door.

It took leading the woman to the couch, putting a mug of coffee in her hands, and letting her sit with her face downcast and her body trembling for a good fifteen minutes in silence, before she spoke.

"They can't fix me," she finally said, looking up, her bloodshot eyes pooling with tears.

For a moment, Michela panicked as the other woman began to quietly cry beside her on the couch. This was likely a very unusual kind of moment for someone like Bette Sans Souci, to be crying in front of someone who was almost a virtual stranger. An unusual act probably called for an unusual response, so the dark haired woman did something she usually didn't with people she barely knew. (And usually especially wouldn't if she also knew that that person could make things explode with a touch.) Taking the coffee mug and setting it aside, she reached out to place a hand on the redhead's elbow, insisting on keeping it there when the other woman tried to pull away. When Bette stopped struggling, she gently tugged her in, closer and closer, until the woman was practically draped across her lap, arms circling her waist and face pressed into Michela's chest.

Shuddering sobs wracked the bomb specialist's body. Awkwardly, the younger woman smoothed her fingers over her crying guest's head, from scalp to the ends of fiery locks in repetition, hoping that it helped. Also hoping that just touching hair wasn't enough contact to set off spontaneous combustion. Time showed that the weird pseudo-petting was, in fact, both helpful and not life threatening. The sobs tapered off to slower, calmer breathing, only occasionally punctuated by a tiny hitch. Eventually, the redhead pushed away from her, her pale cheeks pinked and gaze fixed on the huge wet spot she'd left on the front of brunette's shirt.

When her lips began to part to say something, Michela quickly stopped her with, "Please don't apologize, you really don't have to. I feel like too many people are apologizing to me these days."

Bette frowned, opened her mouth again, and then closed it with another frown and a huff.

"You seem to like cutting people off a lot."

That got a shrug.

"Not really? Just Mr. Red, for the most part." Her gaze lingered long on the bomb specialist's face and she leaned in a bit to examine it more closely. "What else brought this on? I have this feeling that there's more, but I could be wrong."

Some uncertainty leaked into the other woman's expression at the question.

"No, you're right. It was more than knowing they didn't have a way to fix this," she said, raising her hands palms up and staring hard at them, "It felt like- like they didn't really want me there. And something _he_ said, it didn't sit right with me."

"What did he say?" The dark haired woman asked.

"He said that people like us, they're who I'm supposed to protect now. Protect from General Eiling." The look on her face grew disturbed. "He said I should kill him so he'll never be able to hurt them - us - ever again."

Keeping her emotions off of her face this time was even more difficult. She was likely failing horribly at it. General Eiling sounded like a certifiable terrible human being who should die in a fire. Bette Sans Souci, on the other hand, had from the start struck her as a genuinely good person. A genuinely good person who deserved none of what had happened to her and was left incredibly vulnerable by all of it.

And some sick son of a bitch had tried to exploit that and make her their personal hitwoman.

"Who told you that?"

"Dr. Wells."

Ah. There was only one "Dr. Wells" that came to mind, and thinking of him did not inspire good feelings. And frankly, the feelings were getting a lot less good with this new revelation. If it really was who she was thinking of, that man was responsible for what happened to Bette, to Mr. Red, and to herself, whether it was an honest mistake or not. She'd been content with quietly despising him from afar, and had indulged in sending some cathartic anonymous hate mail his way. But this. The man was clearly not only dangerously incompetent but actually dangerous, even handicapped as he was.

"Do you want to stay here?" Michela blinked, surprised but not upset that her mouth had gotten ahead of her. "You obviously need somewhere to hide out from Eiling and the lab is not a good option." _At all._

"That might put you in harm's way, Michela," the redhead whispered, a battle of hope and hesitance waged in her expression.

"Yeah, but really, you being safe matters to me. Even if it's just to lay low for awhile before you take off somewhere else, you're welcome here. I'll even buy you the bus ticket and travel supplies when the time comes."

"Only for as long as it takes for the search to die down," she insisted.

"And you'll let me know when you leave so I can see off," the younger woman assented with a reassuring nod, "I'll even make Mr. Red come, too."

"Why do you call him that?" The bomb specialist asked, her accompanying chuckle clearing the air of grimness around her.

Michela quirked an eyebrow at her. "I thought it was really obvious why."

The other woman burst into full on laughter.

"Anyway," the dark haired woman went on, standing up and stretching exaggeratedly, "Come with me so I can show you your room."

"Are you sure about this though?" Came the question from behind her as she headed towards the hall where the bedrooms were. "If I have an accident, you might not have an apartment to let me crash at anymore."

"Not to trivialize this, but just try to be careful. Accidents are okay if they're small. It might not look it, but this apartment was specially modified, including soundproofing and the ability to withstand a lot of odd and damaging shit happening to it." She could feel Bette's curiosity radiating from behind her. "I am related to some very wealthy, paranoid people, who felt the need to build me a bomb shelter before I went to live on my own." The younger woman paused to throw an apologetic look behind her. "Sorry."

"It was actually kind of funny," the redhead reassured her with a smile.

"Okay." They came to a stop at one of the rooms and swung the door open. "This is usually the room I let my family and a friend-" Her nose scrunched. "-more like an acquaintance - use whenever they stay over. But it's yours for as long as you're here."

Another twenty minutes or so was spent giving a mini tour as well as grabbing her guest some loaner clothes and a toothbrush. Bette's eyes were looking a little misty again by the end of it. Eventually, Michela left her to get settled on her own. She checked her phone, wincing when she saw there were missed calls and texts from her internship demanding an explanation for why she wasn't there. Choosing to ignore those for the moment, she focused on the single text she'd gotten from Mr. Red.

- _Bettes missing_ -

Calling, or even texting, were things she could have done to put his mind at ease. But she thought about what the other woman had told her, what had ultimately driven her away from the place Mr. Red used as his home base. Maybe he trusted those people, and maybe Michela trusted him a lot too, more than she should trust someone she didn't really know. However, that trust did not extend to being comfortable letting the woman she had taken into her care near those people. She wouldn't risk telling him now, only for him to let slip where their friend was hiding out to them. So she only sent one thing.

- _Keep me updated_ -

Putting her phone away, she put a hand over her eyes, massaging the area tiredly. He was going to find out eventually, and then it would be _her_ turn to be the one apologizing. Hopefully, he'd at least give her the chance to talk him out of running back to Harrison Wells with the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for "The Flash"/DCverse. Barry Allen/Grant Gustin is adorable and I just wanted to give him another friend. Not sure about an OC pairing yet, I just want the broship between Michela and Barry.
> 
> Cross-posted to FFnet, story farther along there. Will post a chapter a week here until current with FFnet. Story title is a quote from the novel "The Fault in Our Stars."


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